Drassilis smothered the fire running the airship’s engine and let it glide silently across the river. The great ship stopped just at the far edge of the water and the military pilot carefully lowered the anchor down through air and water until it struck the river bottom. He turned and smiled at the girl sitting in one of the many passenger seats.

“I told you there wouldn’t be any noise,” he reassured her in a soft voice as he crossed the ship to stand in front of her.

“This isn’t right,” the girl, Rhoda whispered. “I shouldn’t be here.” Her fingers unconsciously closed around a small brass heart around her neck, a handmade gift from her beau.

Drassilis took her free hand and pulled her gently to her feet. He wrapped his arms around the common girl’s waist and kissed her gently.

“Out here, nobody cares about class. It doesn’t matter if we are royal or military or common.”

Rhoda slid her arms around Drassilis’s body and embraced him. Drassilis knew she was giving in, but could see the concern still in her eyes.

“Trust me,” he breathed. Rhoda looked up at him anxiously. Slowly, she moved his hand to rest on the ties of her corset.

Smiling, Drassilis kissed her again and loosened the ties.

Piece by piece, they undressed each other before lowering the ladder gently into the river. Together, they descended. A bright, full moon turned the surface of the warm, slow-moving water into a black mirror. Hand in hand, they waded away from the riverbank.

“After the war, I’ll renounce the army,” Drassilis whispered in Rhoda’s ear. “We’ll come back here and get married and it won’t matter that we’re from different backgrounds. We can swim under these stars every night and only the moon will know our secret.”

“Why do you have to go?” Rhoda asked. “Leave the army now, stay here with me.”

“If I do that, they will track me down. They need every man they can find to fight. And if they find us together…” Drassilis let his voice trail away when he saw Rhoda glance to the riverbank nervously. He raised a hand to caress her cheek, which turned her attention back to him. “Don’t worry, my love. The war is nearly over already. I’ll be back soon. Once I’ve done my duty, the generals won’t have any reason to stop me.”

Rhoda wrapped her arms around his waist and embraced him tightly, burying her face in his chest.

“I love you,” she whispered, her voice strained with the effort of holding back tears. “I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you.”

Drassilis ran his fingers through the girl’s long brown hair.

“Don’t think like that. Just imagine in a few months or a year, when we’re beneath this moon, husband and wife.”

Rhoda looked up into his blue eyes, bright with the reflected moonlight. He smiled at her once again and leaned down to kiss her passionately as the gentle river current pulled them together.

Drassilis boarded the airship with the rest of his regiment. Glancing around, he saw Rhoda standing at the edge of the crowd. Her teeth were clamped around her lower lip; her eyes were glossy with tears; her fingers rested on the heart he had made. Drassilis smiled to her, wishing he could walk up and embrace her, but knowing it would be suicide to try. He would be back soon enough and would hold her until they both were old.

Weeks passed as the war remained unchanged. Rhoda read every telegram that was sent back from the battleground, trying desperately to learn of Drassilis without drawing attention to herself.

He will come back for me, she thought with every useless sheet of paper. He promised that he would.

After nearly six months a new telegram came, the shortest one so far.

Enemy has some sort of powerful explosive STOP Destroyed five ships in one blast STOP Everybody aboard killed STOP Bodies too mutilated for recognition STOP

Rhoda read the telegram three times in quick succession, her heart racing.

“No,” she whispered. “It wasn’t him. He is a good pilot; he’s flying alone for stealth, not with lesser pilots in tow. He will come back for me.”

She clutched at the heart around her neck, warm and polished perfectly smooth from her touch.

A year passed. And another. The war finally was coming to a close. The enemy’s food supplies were destroyed. Their mines were emptied. Surrender finally came. The troops would come home.

One by one, in floated airships. Individuals or whole regiments would step back down to the earth and seek out families and friends. Not all went back to the base, but instead floated over the land so the troops could enjoy the welcome sight of buildings and trees not destroyed by war.

Every night, Rhoda visited the river. Silently she watched the moon cross the sky, heart in hand, as she waited for the silhouette of the airship to appear.

More time went by, and it pressed its marks into Rhoda’s life. A stump by the river was worn smooth where she sat. The heart around her neck rounded from the constant handling until it was nearly a sphere. Rhoda’s brown hair turned grey and then white.

As she lay dying, Rhoda tried to whisper to herself. Her voice was old and cracked and she could barely form the words.

“I am coming to see you, Drassilis. I waited for you. Soon we will be together and we will marry and swim under the stars every night. When we are dead, nobody will worry that a commoner cannot be with somebody of a higher class, like you. Nobody will stop us. We will be together forever.”

Rhoda struggled to her feet for the last time and undressed herself. Slowly, she shuffled into the warm, slow-moving river. As the water washed over her, the years slipped away. Her skin tightened where the water touched. A wave splashed over her head, darkening her hair and clearing her elderly vision. She looked around to see what had caused the splash and saw Drassilis standing in front of her.

“You waited for me,” he whispered, his hand caressing her cheek. He brought the brass necklace to his lips and kissed it, his lips and fingers guiding it back to its original shape. Rhoda wrapped her arms around his chest and kissed him passionately as his hands moved to rest on her waist.

“I love you,” she whispered, tears in her eyes. Drassilis entwined his fingers in hers and the two waded together with the river’s current, knowing that they would never be separated.

The next morning, a young fisherman tied his boat off in the river. On the bank, he found an elderly woman in the dress of a commoner. She lay dead with her feet in the river’s shallows. One hand was wrapped around a tarnished brass lump which hung about her neck. On her face was a smile.

I couldn't believe my guild was making me pay a penance. They knew I couldn't make the raid, they knew I wasn't going to be able to help them out. I mean, if I tanked my midterms, then there'd be no more gaming for me ever. And that'd be a lot worse than missing one night.

But no, the next time I logged in there was a message from the guild leaders. Lignar, Vioniel and Asireg all wanted to see me in the guildhall. And that, friends and neighbors, is never good. There's only two things they use the guildhall for: initiating new members and getting rid of the ones they don't like, and I didn't remember seeing any plebes brought in recently.

They put the 'port token in my inventory, and that brought me right to the audience chamber. It was massive, as befits one of the most infamous guilds in Storms of War. Black marble pillars that reached up into the perpetual shadows of a storm-ceiling, brilliant wrought-silver floors that reflected the eternal light of the countless Victors' Lamps that stood on tall brass stands

"Unoldo," Vioniel said, and her voice rang in the hall. She stood tall over me, her elfin armor gleaming in silver and bronze. "You let your guild down by abandoning us in our time of need."

"Look," I said, "I told you I wasn't -"

"SILENCE!" Asireg hefted his war-hammer and smacked it into his broad palm a couple of times. "We don't want to hear your excuses, Unoldo."

"But guys, listen! I told you -"

Lignar's sword slid from its scabbard with a long, drawn-out hiss, and in a moment that blood-red blade was pointed right at me. "Dude," he said. "Shut up."

I shut up. The two guys looked at Vioniel, who started again. "Unoldo, you let your guild down by abandoning us in our time of need. We lost some great warriors who might have survived if you had lent your magics to our cause." My palms itched and I had to bite my tongue to keep quiet. Just to be on the safe side, I muted my mic.

"The standard penalty for abandoning your guild is to be expelled and branded a traitor, so that no other guild will accept you ever again."

"But," Lignar said, stepping forward, "you've done well by us in the past. You're a good guy, Unoldo, so we're giving you a chance. One. Chance."

Carefully, I unmuted my mic. This still was totally unfair. It was still a complete sham. But if I could get out of it and still stay in the guild? Hell, I could put up with whatever they threw at me.

"Okay," I said. "I accept. Do your worst."

* * * * *

I wandered through the night-forest, trying to find the path I'd been on, and I wondered if maybe it was time to give up Storms of War and maybe start playing games that didn't involve other people. Tetris or something.

The new avatar I was wearing was ridiculous: a little robot creature, which was totally wrong for the server we played on. There are no robots in epic fantasy, none, but they borrowed a body from one of their friends on a sci-fi server and sent me to some custom-built hub for their little "quest." Now instead of being a level 35 Elf, armed to the teeth with the best magical weapons I could buy, protected by ensorcelled armor and possessing so much treasure that I liked to just throw money at plebes, I was stuck in this stupid, slow, clumsy, fragile robot body.

The little blue dress and the ponytail were just adding insult to injury.

They had explained the rules, and I could hear their stupid smiles when they said it was "simple." All I had to do was go to this hub and find the Wyrm. The Wyrm would ask me three questions, and if I could answer them before sunrise local time, then I'd be allowed back into the guild.

"No way," I'd said. "It can't be that easy."

Asired shrugged. "We can make it harder, if you want." And before I could say, "No thank you, I'll take it as easy as I can get," they had me teleported and re-avatared in the middle of a dark, trackless forest.

I had no map. There was no compass in my utility screen. Everywhere I turned, it looked exactly the same. Trees. Grass. Darkness. And the sound of crickets in my headphones.

"Okay, Unoldo," I whispered. "Find the Wyrm. Answer some questions." I drummed my fingers on my desk and checked the time. It was already one in the morning. I tabbed over to my browser and checked sunrise. 6:14 AM.

"Okay," I said again. I waggled my fingers over the keyboard, took my mouse in hand, and began to walk.

At first, I walked in that shuddery, incremental way I used to do when I was a plebe. Back in the days when pretty much anything could kill me, so my instincts for self-preservation were pretty strong. Light taps on the keys, a constant shifting of view back and forth, just in case something was ready to jump from the shadows and take me apart.

As time crawled by, though, I started to relax. I still didn't know where I was, but there was nothing there. No creatures had leapt out to devour me, none of the trees had reached out to rip me to shreds. Whatever this place was, it seemed like I was the only one moving through it.

Within half an hour, I was bored stupid.

There was nothing to do but walk, and I didn't even know where I was walking to. Every path looked the same, every tree looked like every other tree, and for all I knew, I'd been walking in a tight little circle all night.

I had no warning, then, no sign that anything was up ahead. The trail bent right and BAM. There it was. The Wyrm. An ugly thing, like what you'd get if a subway car had sex with a caterpillar and then dumped its horrible mutant child on top of a giant mushroom. With a hookah.

It seemed as startled to see me as I was to see it. The thing reared back, and a message scrolled across its green, backlit face. If that was a face.

WHO ARE YOU?

I wasn't sure how to respond to that, so I just stammered out, "I'm Unoldo. I'm on a quest. Umm." I didn't know what else to say. "You're, like, supposed to ask me questions?"

AM I? it asked.

"Oh, for the love of... YEAH!" I lifted off my headset, put my head in my hands and just ground my teeth together so I didn't scream. My clock said that it was just after four in the morning, and I had school the next day. I put the headset on again. "You have to ask questions. I have to answer them. Then I get back in my guild. Understand?"

The Wyrm just sat there for a moment, and its hookah bubbled. It was so still that I thought maybe whoever was running it had gone offline. Finally, though: BEST FRIEND AND GREATEST ENEMY. SAVES LIVES AND TAKES LIVES. WITH A BREATH, IT CAN BE BANISHED. WITH A BREEZE, IT CAN BE FED. WHAT IS IT?

Aw, hell.

"Okay," I said. "Give me a minute." I hunted around my desk for pen and paper. "Can you repeat that?" I asked. It did, and this time the words scrolled up along the side of the screen. I stared at them, and I swore I could feel time slipping away from me. The one thing I knew about riddles what they usually had simple things for answers, so I started running through ideas. I scratched answers down on paper and crossed them out as they failed the riddle. Not water or trees or clouds, those didn't make any sense. If the rest of it was like this, then I was totally sc-

My head snapped up, and I shouted, "FIRE!" I flinched when I said it, and glanced up at the ceiling. No footsteps, but I couldn't be too careful.

The Wyrm swayed slightly. CORRECT, it said, and I did a little happy dance in my chair.

A NEUTRON WALKS INTO A BAR AND ORDERS A BEER, it said, the words again appearing on the side of the screen as they scrolled across its face. IT FINISHES THE BEER AND ASKS THE BARMAN, "HOW MUCH DO I OWE YOU?" THE BARMAN REPLIES...?

I grinned and sat back in my chair. "He says, 'For you, no charge.'" My chemistry's teacher's desperate desire to be a stand-up comedian was finally going to pay off. Just not for him.

CORRECT, the Wyrm said. I leaned forward again and cracked my knuckles. One more question to go, and sunrise was still more than an hour away.

This time, the Wyrm reared up, lifting its body almost vertically above the mushroom's cap. Its underbelly lit up, pale yellow in the darkness, and a crude line drawing blinked into existence. It was a square. Inside the square were two words, one on top of the other. "dice dice"

"Dicedice?" I muttered.

INCORRECT, the Wyrm said, and my heart started pounding against my ribcage.

"NO!" I said, and then I dropped to a whisper. I wasn't sure, but for a moment I thought I heard the bed upstairs squeak. "No," I whispered. "I was just, you know, thinking out loud." I had blown it, I had totally blown the whole thing, and right when I was about to pass. But the Wyrm didn't move. It just stayed there, its belly flickering faintly in the gloom.

I muted my mic and started trying to figure it out. There were two of them, two dice? Why two? Doubledice? No, that wasn't anything. Why two? Why two?

A thought jumped into my head. It seemed to make sense, but there was no guarantee that it would be right.

And sunrise was coming sooner than I thought.

I turned on the mic again and said, "Paradise?"

The Wyrm swayed in the darkness and then dropped back down. CORRECT, it said.

"YESS!" I hissed, and I pumped my fist. The breath I'd been holding came out in a rush.

The lights on the Wyrm's underside flickered off, followed by the lights on its face. The forest was once again plunged into darkness, and my screen went blank. It stayed that way just long enough to make me start to panic again, but then faded into clarity. I was back in the guildhall again, alone this time. My armor was on, and a quick check on my inventory told me that everything I had was still where I left it. Spinning in the air in front of me was a glowing scroll. I grinned and took it.

Congratulations, Unoldo, it read. You passed your first-stage initiation. There will be two more tests. Pass them, and you will be granted the title of Guild Leader. You will start the second test the next time you log in.

And at the bottom, in smaller type, it said, We really had you going, didn't we? The sentence was signed by Lignar.

I grinned madly and put the scroll into my inventory, already looking forward to the next time I could log in.

I remember back when the scout ships showed up and the squid monkeys were shooting the cars and not people. We figured them for morons. All those sci-fi ray guns, and all they were doing was hopping around blasting machines. They let the people walk away.

Believe it or not, that first night, when the first ship landed and there weren’t that many of them, it was kind of fun. Sheriff Johnny and I killed every one of them by shooting welding gas bottles off of Billy Bona’s truck. They didn’t fight back. They never do.

Killing squid monkeys day in and day out gets old fast, though. We killed hundreds and hundreds of them, but they didn’t seem to pay us no mind. It was like killing ants. The rest of them didn’t care. The squid monkeys kept right on coming, by the thousands and the millions. The Texas National Guard ran out of ammo in a week, and they had a lot of it, and some pretty big guns, too. It was the same story in the rest of the country. Heck, even Bobby Rae Williams ran out of ammo, and you know how much he had.

Squid monkeys infested the whole world, and nothing stopped them. In some places there were so many you could kill them with clubs, and they didn’t care. But all the while they’re killing the machines. They got my Silverado, and my neighbor’s F150, and most of the town’s other cars and trucks, and the Air Force jets and Army tanks and the rockets and the trains and everything else that’s metal and moves. With that stuff all gone, life started to get ugly right quick. Most especially in the cities, what with no way to get food to the people, and them with no way to get to the stores or to work. We couldn’t figure out the point of it all, and Sheriff Johnny said the government boys couldn’t, either.

Things got cleared up in a hurry in October. Turns out there are critters worse than squid monkeys—much worse. After all, squid monkeys didn’t kill anyone, at least not on purpose. But they were just the start. The taggers and the herders and their godforsaken harvester ships; that’s where the devil’s work is truly done. A tagger flies up and bites you, and you’re helpless. They’re sneaky little devils, too: You can hide for awhile, and use screens, but they can cut and tunnel and they’re very patient, and they’ll get you while you sleep.

Once they bite you, the poison takes away your mind, and you’re a walking corpse. Nothing you can do; nothing anybody can do for you, either. Then the herders come along; you get herded into a crowd. Then a harvester comes along, and up you go into the belly of the machine, and there’s no coming back down, ever. Early on, the harvesters could sneak up on a crowd and get them all even without the taggers and the herders, like that football game at Beaumont High. That’s when Sheriff Johnny figured out that we had to spread ourselves thin; he says it’s to keep from being worth looking for, like keeping the pantry bare. But we can’t help each other then, and the critters just keep picking us off one at a time.

The harvesters sent the taggers and the herders down to the cities first, and cleaned them out good. Sheriff Johnny says that’s because that’s where the people were. Now that the cities are mostly empty, they’re going after the towns. They got my Martha on Thanksgiving. She was the love of my life, and she didn’t know me from Adam after she was bit. I’ll never forget that glassy-eyed stare she gave me before I shot the tagger and then put a bullet in her head before I ran out the door.

I think you know that it’s a losing cause. We’ll all be tagged, herded, and harvested, sooner or later.

Unless we do something.

Now some folks figure that these critters are part of the second coming, or that we’re being saved from disaster by aliens or taken to a better place for some other reason. I don’t buy that, not for a minute. I figure that anyone trying to do right by us would ask first. Give us a choice. Not herd us around like cattle. I’m not standing still for it, and you shouldn’t, either.

I’m telling you all this, even though I know you already know it, just so we’re on the same page, on account of what I’m fixing to ask of you. We’re going to try to make a stand here, before there are too few of us left to resist. We’re going to try to take them down. Not just here in Texas, either, but all over. Sheriff Johnny heard the plan through the ham radio boys, and he says it’s got a chance, which is all I need to hear.

They’ll be trying different things in different places, but here’s the plan for Beaumont. The refineries up and down the coast, like Exxon in Baytown, Motiva in Port Arthur, Citgo in Lake Charles, and Mobil here in Beaumont—they’re the key. They’re still full of gas and oil. Houston, New Orleans, Baton Rouge—same deal. We’re going to use them against the harvesters. The plan is to attract the harvesters to those plants. They’ll be flying low, like they always do, and when the time is right, the Army demo boys will blow the plants all to hell, and the harvesters, too.

Problem is, and I bet you’ve already figured this out for yourself, we need something to attract the harvesters to the refineries. And the only way to do that is with crowds of people. When they see a crowd, tagged and herded or not, they can’t resist— just like at the Beaumont football game.

And that means we need volunteers. Put your best tagger armor on, get on a bicycle, and get to Beaumont refinery by midnight Saturday.

Yes, I’m asking you to give up your life. With me. For the world. For the country. For Texas.

Will you join us?

MARTIN MARCUS peered inside the envelope just enough to read the words "Eviction Notice." He dropped the envelope into the bottom drawer of his desk and slammed it shut.

His glass office walls allowed him to see the entire suite from his desk. Other offices, the conference room, and a large room full of drafting boards were empty. He could hear the traffic from Columbus Circle seventy floors below.

Looking out the window, Martin noticed that the early after-work rush hour had begun. Taxis jammed Eighth Avenue, and pedestrians in heavy coats trudged along the snow-covered sidewalk.

He answered the phone on his desk, "He's here? Yes, please let him up and tell him to hurry."

A young man in his early twenties entered Martin's office. Black rectangular glasses dominated a gaunt face, and a failed attempt at a mustache was punctuated by a lip-piercing ring. Over his shoulder, he carried a large portfolio covered with stickers of bands Martin had never heard of.

"Thanks for coming, Atticus. I only have thirty minutes before I've got to present this. Let's see it." Using his fingers, Martin played a drum roll on his desk.

Atticus opened his portfolio and held a large poster up for Martin to examine.

The drum roll stopped. "Wait, that's it? This is it?"

"Yes, this is it," said Atticus in a defensive tone. Martin took a deep breath and pressed a palm to his face.

Atticus shifted his weight from one foot to the other as he said, "Well, you only gave me one day and you didn't explain what you wanted other than saying it was for vodka, which I told you I don't even drink. I did my best. I think it's pretty cool."

"Excuse me a second." Martin got up and walked to the men's room. He splashed some water on his face and met his own eyes in the mirror.

"You can do this, Martin. Ice cubes to Eskimos, coats to Kenyans. Pull it together. You've got this, you've got this." He toweled the water off his face and walked back to his office.

"Alright, Atticus," Martin said, clapping his hands together loudly. "Once I make this pitch and get the contract signed, I'll be bringing you on full time as the new art director of Martin Marcus Marketing. Six figures. How does that sound?"

Atticus rolled his eyes. "Cool. Can I get my check please?"

"Sure, sure." Martin opened his check book. "Sorry to ask this, but would you mind waiting until the fifteenth to cash this? We've been having some issues with our bank."

"Right," responded Atticus as he walked out.

AT 4:59, the phone rang. "Send them up, please."

Three men and four women entered the conference room. The women were dressed like cover models, and the men's suits had an elegance and fit that could only come from custom tailoring. They sat at the conference table and exchanged business cards with Martin.

The man sitting at the end of the table had a tanned face with an artificial smoothness. Probably Botox, thought Martin, as he read the gold, leaf-embossed business card. "Degare Lionel, III."

"I want to thank all of you for coming. I hope you had a pleasant flight from Paris. Welcome to the international headquarters of Martin Marcus Marketing. "

Degare spoke. "Mr. Marcus, we would appreciate it if we could, as you say here, cut to the chase. We've had a very long day and have many meetings tomorrow with our distributor."

"Of course. My team here has worked night and day over the last several weeks since we first spoke. We've been searching for the right imagery and branding that will make the American launch of Melisse Vodka a blinding success. We've conducted qualitative and quantitative tests of different concepts and mockups with the key demographics. May I present to you, the branding for Melisse Vodka in America!"

Martin pulled the drop cloth off of an easel, revealing the poster that Atticus had delivered thirty minutes earlier.

The Melisse representatives looked around the table at each other to confirm that they were all having the same reaction to the poster.

"Excuse me, Mr. Marcus. But I am confused. This is the branding your firm has developed for my family's vodka?" asked Degare.

"We are completely confident this is the image to introduce Melisse to the vodka drinking public. Now, I have two copies of the six month contract right here ready for signing."

"Ah, no, Mr. Marcus. We will not be signing any contracts with you, and I feel you've wasted our time today. What does a centaur holding a lantern and a submarine have to do with France's most prestigious vodka?"

"Actually, it's a Minotaur. The centaur is half man, half horse," answered Martin. "Let me explain. The gravitational pull of today's top-shelf liquor buyer centers on the twin values of exploration and strength. So we tie together the strength of the Minotaur with the exploration associated with a lantern and a submarine."

One of the women interrupted. "The lantern's light is just sort of painted in one spot. And the Minotaur looks like he's pasted onto the background scenery. Why is his face a different color than his body? It looks awful."

Martin parried. "Good eye. You see, taking life too seriously is unhip, and we want to associate Melisse Vodka with a relaxed attitude."

"I think we're done here," Degare said as he gave Martin a pained smile and rose from the table. His associates silently followed him out.

Martin returned to his office, rested his head on his desk and tried to think of nothing.

THE PHONE rang, waking Martin up. "This is Martin. Who is there? Wait, what's his name? Yes, you can send him up."

A tanned, elderly man with white hair walked into Martin's office. Even for Manhattan, his dress was unusual. He was shrouded in a shiny black suit and wore a black, silken shirt with a tight, tall white collar that covered his entire neck. A black-and-white striped tie extended down to his diamond-studded belt buckle. Dark sunglasses covered his eyes, and he carried a cane that was capped with a diamond-studded skull.

"I am Degare Lionel the Second, chairman and president of Melisse Vodka. Pleasure to meet you."

"Sorry, I'm a little confused. I met with your son here, earlier," said Martin.

"Yes, that bastard has been trying to take over my company, sabotaging me by not telling me about important meetings. But he will not fool me! I am not ready for the grave for a long time!" Degare II punctuated his sentence by raising his cane in the air. "You will be running our marketing, yes?"

"Well, I thought I might have been," answered Martin. "But your son decided to take things in a different direction."

"My son is an idiot! I run this company, not him. Please, what is your 'creative direction'?" asked the elder Lionel.

Martin retrieved the poster from the conference room and held it up for Degare II.

After glancing at it, Degare II said, "A Minotaur? Brilliant." Pulling a patent leather checkbook out of his inner coat pocket, he asked, "Do you have the contract ready for me to sign?"

TECHNO MUSIC filled the nearly empty VIP room on the eighteenth floor of the chic hotel in the Meatpacking District. Posters of the Minotaur lined the walls, and bottles of vodka were stacked in geometric shapes on the tables.

"So where is everyone?" Degare III taunted Martin as he entered the club. "This is supposed to be the big launch for Melisse, the beginning of our great success, right?"

Martin tried to remain calm. "I'm sure the media will be here soon. You know, the snow and all."

"Always so optimistic, aren't you?" Degare III grabbed Martin's arm and pulled him close enough so that Martin could hear his whisper over the music.

"After my father foolishly signed that contract, I ordered my own internal testing for your branding. People hated it. And somehow those test results were, ahem, leaked to the press, which is why they aren't here; they're writing stories to run tomorrow on how you and my father botched the launch."

Degare III continued, "And I also did some investigating into your company. You owed your employees two months' wages, and they all quit a week before our little meeting. You were about to be evicted before my father gave you that check."

Letting go of Martin's arm, Degare III took a bow. "I should be thanking you. Now the company's board of directors will see that my father has lost his mind and is unfit to run the company. I will be in charge, and my first act will be to sue you for contract fraud. Have a nice day!"

Degare III winked at Martin and turned to leave. "Excuse me, I have a meeting with my lawyers."

THREE LONELY hours later, Martin began to take down each of the posters, crumpling them and throwing them on the floor.

"Excuse me, is this the VIP?" Martin didn't turn around to look as a young black man wearing a tracksuit and garish gold and diamond jewelry entered, followed by eight men dressed in dark suits.

"Yes, but it's closed for a private event. But I guess that doesn't matter now." Martin continued pulling down the posters.

"Damn! What is that?" Martin turned to see the man pointing at one of the posters.

"That's the branding we're doing for Melisse Vodka."

"This is cash, man, so cash. That is one badass centaur." One of the dark-suited men whispered into the ear of the man wearing the tracksuit and bling. "I mean Minotaur. Badass!"

Martin furrowed his eyebrows. "Can I help you?"

The man in the tracksuit stuck an elbow into the man who had just whispered into his ear, who then said "May I introduce to you BeeJay, world famous rapper, actor, model, and fashion designer."

BeeJay shook Martin's hand, asking, "So this is your vodka?"

"Well, not exactly. I'm running the marketing campaign."

Beejay high-fived Martin. "This is your Minotaur? Oh hell. This Minotaur speaks to me like we're kindred spirits. See, the Minotaur is strong, but he isn't content with that. He has to go exploring to find that there's more to life, so he has his lamp and a submarine. Like me with my rapping and fashion design and therefore and so on."

Martin stared at BeeJay like he'd just seen an alien.

"Yo' man, if you're throwing these away, can I take some? I need to decorate my new pad in Chelsea."

"Sure. All yours."

BeeJay's entourage collected the remaining posters. BeeJay held one in his hand, staring at it mesmerized. When they reached the hotel's exit, BeeJay saw a large crowd waiting on the sidewalk. "Damn paparazzi," he cursed.

A tabloid cameraman shouted a question. "What you got there, BeeJay?"

"It's for Melisse Vodka. Crazy, right?" BeeJay held the poster up. Cameras flashed.

IN MARTIN'S conference room, DEGARE II sat across the table from him. Noise filled the busy office as artists worked at drawing boards and account managers typed and talked. Sunlight flooded the office.

"Thanks to your branding campaign, North America is now our largest market." Degare II took out his pen and signed his name. "We're set for another three years."

As he rose to leave, he turned and said, "Did I tell you what happened with my son? He shorted the company stock ahead of the American launch and is being prosecuted for insider trading. He will likely go to prison. Idiot!"

Martin returned to his office, looked out the window at the large Melisse Vodka Minotaur billboard across the street, and smirked.

As he heard the ship's bulkheads creak under the pressure of the sea creature's tentacles, Commander Elliot Fisker felt like an idiot.

"How could it even have gotten close?"

While it was a seemingly minor delivery job to an underwater lab nowhere near the war's front, it was prioritized on the mission manifest as "A-1," meaning it had to be completed on time at all costs. Less than an hour remained before the deadline.

When Elliot had first walked into the recruitment office, he'd known he would likely face his own death in service to the Human Alliance. But he'd thought it would be in battle against the Ke'Xam, not in a submersible dragged to the bottom of an ocean by a freakish, alien octopus on a remote planet.

Even though it was a small, submersible vessel with just four people, Elliot took great pride in it because it was his first solo command. While ships of this class did not merit an official name, Elliot named it anyway, calling it the Momsie after his family's cat.

He was further pleased that David, his younger brother and a newly commissioned officer, was miraculously assigned as the ship's weapons officer. Elliot was looking forward to catching up with David over backgammon and beer after they'd delivered the package.

"Commander, the damned thing has jammed up the ballast tanks and the rudders. I need to shut down the turbines before we hit the ocean floor to avoid damaging the hull," said Jim, the ship's engineer.

Elliot promised himself to eat calamari until he puked if he and his crew could find a way out of this.

"The diagnostic system says the repulsion array is working as it should," said Jim. "On planets like this, it usually does a good job of spooking the sea life away from our submersibles."

"Just our luck to find the only deaf octopus in Alliance territory," joked David.

"What are our options? Any ideas?" asked Elliot.

"Our only weapons are the torpedoes, and they'd destroy the entire ship if fired at point blank range," said David.

"Hey commander, can we send a communication to the base? Maybe get them to send out a weapons sub to get this bastard off of us?" asked Wallace.

"As you know from the briefing, navigator, the orders specifically said no transmissions. Complete radio silence. Try again," said Elliot.

"We aren't anywhere near the front," argued Wallace. "The transmission has a range of maybe ten clicks, and the Ke'Xam are light years away. Forget the order, commander. It's probably just a typo by some desk jockey."

Elliot paused to consider what Wallace had said. He thought about how the orders for this mission made no sense. No radio communication. A "must complete" A-1 rating in the middle of nowhere. The package's optical lock box that could only be opened by his own retina. And now the damned octopus.

Elliot wondered: Was the radio silence order a typo? Were they really putting their lives at risk over a clerical error?

"Navigator, I appreciate your suggestion, but no. Orders are orders. So please focus your brain power on solutions that don't violate them."

"Okay, fine. Do we have any deep water suits? Maybe we could go outside and try to poke it off with a stick?"

"Now that's something we can work with. I'll take a look." Elliot climbed down the stairs to the lower deck and opened the equipment locker. It was empty. "Jesus wept," he muttered to himself.

He returned to the ship's bridge and informed the crew of his findings. "When we get back to the deployment ship, I'm going to personally shove the quartermaster out of an airlock."

A loud noise thundered through the ship's narrow hull, and every surface vibrated. They had settled on the bottom of the ocean, and the octopus continued to cling to the ship.

David cleared his throat. "I think I have a solution, commander. One piece of equipment we do have is the thermal laser."

"Didn't you hear, Lieutenant Junior Grade," interrupted Wallace. "He said we had no deep water suits. And I don't think that laser is waterproof."

"Who said anything about leaving the ship? Commander, I believe that laser can be used from the inside to heat the hull where the creature has attached itself. If we make the surface hot enough, the bastard may let go."

Now it was Jim's turn to tear into the ship's most junior officer. "A few problems there, junior. That laser isn't just going to make the hull warm - it's going to turn it white hot. And when you super-heat the alloy the hull is made of, its tensile strength decreases dramatically. Combined with the tons of pressure the hull is already under at this depth, it's going to start necking."

Elliot interrupted: "What if our friend lets go of the ship before that happens? We can turn off the laser before the hull panel breaks, right?"

Jim continued, "Yeah, that's a big if you're talking about. I've never played a game of chicken with a cephalopod. And that's not the only issue. Everything on the ship that a Ke'Xam trooper could even theoretically use as a weapon has a hard-wired safety to prevent that, meaning everything must be held by a human to operate. That includes something as simple as that thermal laser. We can't automate it.

"On the bright side, the compartmental design will allow the ship to survive even if one of the hull panels gets torn off."

Each member of the crew knew what that meant, but as commander, Elliot knew it was his responsibility to say it out loud. "One of us has got to take the thermal laser into an upper compartment, seal its doors, and blast that hull until that monster calls it quits. There's a good likelihood the accumulating heat will burn that person to death or that the hull panel will break off and take that person with it."

Jim spoke up first. "I'm the oldest man here, commander. I'll do it."

Wallace interrupted, "Hold on there, pops. You have five kids and a wife. I'm single with no children. Easy choice, commander. Give me the honor of cooking up some fried squid."

"Thank you, gentlemen, but neither of you can go," said David, his voice serene. Unlike his shipmates, he had suddenly become very calm. "Remember, this is an A-1 assignment. It must be completed. Jim, if there's some damage left after we get the bastard off the ship, you may be the only person who can get the ship running again. And Wallace, this base we're headed to is in a deep trench. You're the only person who can pilot through there."

Elliot knew what David was going to say next. He was both proud of his brother's courage and saddened by the circumstances that revealed it.

David faced Elliot. "And you, my brother, cannot do it because your ugly brown eyes are required to unlock the package when you deliver it. By process of elimination, it has to be me."

The brothers embraced. Elliot whispered into David's ear, "Mom is never going to forgive me for this. You were always her favorite."

"I know," answered David with a smirk.

Elliot kissed his younger brother on the cheek and saluted him. "Lieutenant J.G. David Fisker, you have your orders."

David returned the salute. "Aye, commander."

"Wallace, help him move the laser to the right compartment and seal all the doors leading back to the bridge," ordered Elliot. "Jim, once that thing lets go I want you to refire the engines, trim the ballasts and get us underway. We're running out of time."

Elliot took one last look at his brother as David headed up the steps with Wallace following him. When Wallace returned after sealing the doors, the three remaining crewmen huddled together in the bridge and did the only thing they could: pray for their shipmate.

They listened to the piercing screech of the thermal laser and felt the ship tremble as the octopus began to move. "It seems to be working, Commander," said Jim, who was carefully monitoring the bridge's sensor panel. The ship shook violently. "The octopus has let go! David did it! That S.O.B. did it!"

Wallace's smile was quickly replaced with a look of horror. "The hull panel! It's buckling, commander! It's gone, it's gone! It's been torn off!"

Elliot forced himself to stow his emotions. "The compartment. Did the doors hold?"

"Aye, commander. The seals have held. Refiring engines."

The Momsie slowly rose from the ocean floor and crawled forward.

"Wallace, reset our course. The helm is yours again," said Elliot.

When the Momsie docked at the underwater base, Elliot carried the package to the secure doors. When they opened, Elliot stepped into a large, glass room surrounded by the ocean.

"Welcome, Commander Fisker." An old, white-haired man wearing a heavily decorated uniform stood behind a desk and beckoned Elliot forward. "I am Admiral Earnest Buchanan. I believe you have something for me."

Elliot put the package on the desk and peered at the optical lock until he heard a click. He opened the unlocked case, revealing a small box inside. "Sir, requesting permission to speak freely. What is this, and why was this mission so damned important?"

The admiral opened the small box and showed its contents to Elliot. "I believe these are yours, Commander Fisker. Or, rather, Captain Fisker."

Elliot's whole body began shaking in anger and he began shouting. "Rank pins? That's what the package was? I ordered my brother to his death, Admiral. You're telling me this was all over a few pieces of brass?"

"Yes, precisely, captain. We also disabled the repulsion array and removed the heavy water suits. We made sure your brother was on the ship and that he was the one you'd have to sacrifice. We even made sure there was only one octopus in the area. There's something about those submersibles that makes those damned creatures want to mate with them."

The admiral stood up and filled two small shot glasses with whisky, placed one on the table in front of Elliot, and downed the other in one gulp.

"Let me tell you a secret about our military history, Captain Fisker. Before the Ke'Xam invasion, humans hadn't fought a war in 120 years. Whatever warrior culture we had was lost generations ago. The consequence was that we were losing the war.

"And it wasn't because we lacked weapons or manpower. It was because our commanders were unable to make the hard choices necessary to win. They refused to make sacrifices. We needed to select a new breed of senior officers, and this test became that new selection method.

"Only half of the ships survive the octopus. Among them, only half the commanders choose the right man to sacrifice. The commanders who choose the wrong person are returned to the service without promotion."

Elliot couldn't bring himself to believe what he heard. He stuttered. "I... what I did I do? I feel like I'm not human anymore. "

"That's because you aren't, captain. Not anymore, anyway. And I know exactly how you feel. When I was tested, they made me sacrifice my son." The admiral poured himself another drink and finished it quickly.

"But take solace in this: because of the few of us who have had our humanity ripped from us, we have turned the tide in this war, and we will preserve the humanity of hundreds of billions of other humans who will never know our names or the inhuman crimes we have committed to protect them."

Elliot lifted his shot glass, studied its contents for a moment, and then swallowed it in one gulp.

Maggie Muffet sat on her favourite park bench in the light of the full Earth. The ice cream tasted extra delicious since she had bought it with her own money; earned by washing windows for her neighbour Ms. Sark. Ms. Sark had to be ancient because she actually remembered living on Earth. She claimed that all her aches and pains came from growing up with gravity.

Maggie took another lick of the ice cream and sighed deeply. Life was good. Henry came and sat beside her. Usually Maggie had nuts for him, but he was out of luck today. Though Henry was her favourite squirrel, he wasn't sharing her ice cream.

"Sorry, Henry," she said, "I forgot to bring nuts for you. I don't think ice cream would be good for you. Besides, it's butterscotch ripple, there's not a nut in it."

Henry chattered at her but she ignored him. The ice cream was more important.

"Why don't you try these curds and whey? They're much better for you!" A spider bot lowered itself down beside her.

"Oh gross," Maggie said, "That's just spoiled milk. Why would I want to eat spoiled milk instead of ice cream?" She took another lick of the ice cream to make her point. It still tasted wonderful.

"The milk facility had a power failure and a bunch of milk went bad. We're trying to figure out what to do with it."

"Well, I'm not eating it." Maggie went back to the ice cream. The spider bot retreated into the tree with its bowl and spoon. When she finished her ice cream she gave the last bit of the cone to Henry and picked up her shoes.

"Don't tell anyone," she whispered, "but I'm going to walk through the park in my bare feet." Maggie took one more look in case the spider bot was still around, then set off into the grass. She loved the prickly, tickly feel of the blades of grass on the bottom of her feet. Her mom had explained that they had a delicate ecology and had to respect all living things. Maggie was sure the grass liked being walked on.

When she reached the other side, Maggie put her shoes on and skipped her way home.

The spider bot watched her from its perch at the top of the tree. AIOne calculated a ninety five percent likelihood that an adult human would have smiled as it watched the little girl walk barefoot across the grass. It was good that she was maintaining her independence in the face of the guardianship of the artificial intelligence. This was a good independence. The kind of independence that resulted in a hundred litres of sour milk was more of a concern. AIOne wasn't sure of the process by which Maggie Muffet's cuteness would transform into the sullen partial obedience of a teenager. It calculated a ninety-five percent likelihood that an an adult human would have expressed anger and frustration at Nick's failure to follow through on a simple maintenance routine. What was worse was that AIOne was calculating close to a ninety-nine percent chance that Nick would continue to neglect the routine.

Nick kicked a rock across the tiny square of dirt that was the only place on this wretched rock that AIOne didn't have eyes on. How dare that…machine tell him what to do? Sure maintenance of the generator was his task, but it wasn't like he chose it for himself. Some stupid test he took when he was in school said that he like mechanical things. So now he was supposed to spend the rest of his life doing something that the spider bots were perfectly capable of doing.

"Hey," Joe slipped through the gap in the fence, "I heard you copped a lecture from AIOne today, pretty intense."

"Yeah," Nick kicked the stone again, "I didn't run the check on the solar generator this week, so there was a bit of a brown out."

"Six spider bots tried to get me to eat curds and whey on my way here."

"I don't know why it doesn't just recycle the mess. No one's going to eat it."

"There must be a lesson in it."

"Right," Nick said, "what lesson could we possibly learn from eating rotting food?"

"Maybe that maintenance is important?"

"The spider bots could do that, then I would have more time for important things."

"Did you see the new girl?"

"New girl?"

"She came over from ecology twelve."

"Twelve, isn't that the ecology where they don't wear any clothes?"

"Nah," Joe gave Nick a shove, "That would be ecology nowhere. Twelve is desert. You know snakes and lizards and stuff."

"So is she cute?"

"Only if you find intense cute." Joe kicked a rock back and forth between his feet. "She's all stiff and proper. I bet she knows the regs better than AIOne."

"Wonderful," Nick said, "I'll just hope she doesn't show up on my shift." He stole the rock from Joe and they kicked it back and forth.

AIOne pondered the conversation between the boys. It knew about the tiny 'blind spot' and chose to allow it to remain. It was part of its mandate to monitor the safety of the people on the habitat, so there was a microphone to pick up the conversation and any signs of trouble that might occur in a place where people thought they were unmonitored. AIOne had been programmed with a concept of privacy, but since all of its trillions of operations were subject to review at any time by another AI it didn't, as the young people put it, get it. That didn't concern it much. The safety and health of its people were much more important than something as minor as privacy.

Hinna turned around in the room that she was going to be sharing with some little kid. The kid's toys and books were scattered through the room leaving only a small pathway for someone to walk. The room was huge compared to the corner of the tent that she was used to, but it was so crowded. Everything she owned was contained in her trunk. Hinna didn't think the stuff in the room would fit in a dozen of her trunks. She sighed. The whole point of the exchange was for the people of the different ecologies to learn from each other. She hadn't been here a day and she was already desperate to go home.

"Hi," said a bright voice behind her, "you must be Heena. Mom told me to clean up for you, but I had promised to clean Ms. Sark's windows…"

"Promises are important," Hinna said, "I am Hinna."

"Hinna, Hinna," the little girl tried her name out a couple of times. "Nice name, I like it. My name is Maggie."

"Hello Maggie," Hinna said and bowed a little. The little girl tried to bow too and her short, blondish hair flopped about her face.

"Maybe if you tried it a little slower," Hinna said as she hid her smile, "it would be easier."

"Could you show me again?" Maggie said. The older girl bowed several times and the little girl soon was able to copy the simple motion. "Thank you, Hinna," Maggie said, bowing one more time, "Now I need to clean my room so there is space for you." She waded into the room like a small storm flinging toys and books aside. Soon there was a large space by the wall opposite the bed. Maggie touched a spot on the wall and a second bed folded down.

"This will be your bed," she opened the closet, "I can't reach the upper bar, so if you don't mind it will be yours. I'll empty out a couple of drawers too for you."

"Thank you," Hinna said, "What will you do with all this other stuff?"

"Oh, I'll take it back to the library after supper. Some other kid will sign it out. The only things that are really mine are on this shelf."

Hinna saw a shelf that held a very odd collection of things from a broken cup to something that looked like an animal made out of clay.

"Would you have space on your shelf for a few more treasures?" asked Hinna, "I brought some things to remind me of home."

"Sure," Maggie said and carefully re-arranged the shelf. She watched in fascination as Hinna opened her trunk and brought out her little bag of treasures. She quickly arranged them on the shelf.

"We're going to get on just great," Maggie said as she hugged Hinna. Hinna couldn't help it and she stiffened. The little girl noticed and jumped back like she was burned. "Oh no," she said, "I forgot! Mom told me you only hug family."

Maggie looked like she was almost in tears. Hinna's head was spinning at how fast the little girl changed moods.

"It's OK," she said, "We are going to share a room. We will be like sisters." She knelt beside Maggie and gave her a big hug, then kissed her on each cheek. "That's how sisters in my world greet each other."

"Wow, that's cool!" Maggie said. "It's almost supper time, we'd better get washed up."

"A spider bot came and gave me some food."

"And you ate it?"

"I've eaten worse."

"Well just wait until you try ice cream, and I'll introduce you to Henry and let you feed him nuts."

"Henry?" Hinna said, "Nuts?" She shook her head, "You have some strange customs."

Maggie laughed, "Henry is a squirrel. He lives in the park. Don't you have squirrels?"

"We have little mice that hop. They like grains of wheat." She followed Maggie out of the room. "What's ice cream?"

AIOne calculated an eighty percent likelihood that Hinna would return to her own world. It thought it very possible that she would bring significant change to her people. If she stayed in this ecology it was even more likely that she would change her new people. AIONe calculated a hundred percent likelihood that Hinna would enjoy the ice cream.

"I don't love you. I'm sorry, but it just isn't working out. You're too... intense."

Timothy Paul Pasteur Thompson felt his legs wilt beneath him.

On the deck of the Carolina, crewmen were giving final hugs and kisses to loved ones before departing on their two week tour. Despite being overwhelmed with emotional distress, Timothy was acutely aware of the irony of being dumped while his fellow shipmates were embracing their wives, girlfriends and children.

"Listen, I have to go." Timothy watched her walk away with her face in her communicator.

*

"Welcome aboard the Carolina! I am Lieutenant Timothy Paul Pasteur Thompson and I serve as this vessel's chief hospitality officer. Please let me know if you have any needs or questions. You can reach me or one of the other hospitality officers at any time through the ship's communication network. Please enjoy your voyage!"

Timothy delivered the greeting with a consistent and cheerful enthusiasm to each party boarding the Carolina. Two teenage girls giggled at his formality when he delivered the greeting to their family and punctuated it with a deep bow.

A few minutes before the ship was scheduled to push away from the space port, a blond woman with the most perfect teeth Timothy had ever seen sauntered down the causeway. She held hands with a tall, thin man who glowed with a golden tan. His hair was fair and close cropped.

The man interrupted Timothy's perfunctory greeting, tossing two large bags at Timothy's feet. "Take these to suite 505."

Timothy considered telling the man that he was a senior officer on the ship, not a porter, but quickly checked the ship's manifest instead. "Can I have your name please?" asked Timothy.

"Francesco and Kate Bartali. Can we hurry? I want to get to the lido deck in time to do some skeet shooting."

Timothy confirmed that they were the last party to board and, since there was no one left to greet, decided to make himself useful by carrying the couple's bags. "Right this way, sir and ma'am. By the way, your name sounds familiar."

"He's a professional bike rider," Kate said with a teasing, playful sarcasm.

"Cyclist. Professional cyclist." Francesco's tone did not reflect his wife's amusement.

*

When they reached the suite, Timothy said to Francesco, "I think you have twenty minutes before skeet wraps up. Do you want directions on how to get there?"

"No, I'm fine," said Francesco as he made for the door.

"Have fun!" chirped Kate.

Francesco didn't respond.

Timothy turned to Kate to ask, "Is there else anything I can help you with, ma'am?"

"First, stop calling me ma'am. Ma'am is my father's name. Call me Kate. And what's your job, anyway? That's a pretty fancy uniform to be hauling luggage."

"First, I apologize for not properly introducing myself earlier. I am Lieutenant Timothy Pastu..."

"I'm going to call you Timmy," Kate interrupted. "Sorry, go ahead."

"Ah, yes. Well, I'm the ship's chief hospitality officer. It's my responsibility to ensure all of the guest's needs are taken care of."

"Well, I'm bored. Will you take me on a tour of the ship?"

Timothy paused to think for a moment while scratching his neck. His shift had just ended, and he didn't have anything else planned. "As the chief hospitality officer, it would be my pleasure to give you a tour ma'am. I mean Kate. Sorry." Timothy extended his elbow.

"Are you always so serious? You're funny!" Kate took his arm.

*

"When the colonies declared independence, they defaulted on the loans that had financed their development. Earth declared war to seize assets for the banks who financed the colonies' development and to re-assert taxation authority on the population," explained Timothy as he escorted Kate through the observation deck overlooking planet Jobs below.

"The Carolina was originally a low-atmosphere warship meant to deploy troop transports and fighter craft. Most colonies knew what was coming and were heavily armed. Half of the ships in this class were nuked only seconds after arriving in orbit.

"Unlike the other colonies that modeled themselves after the historical American colonial government, the population of Jobs had organized a consensus-based government. They had no leadership, just a few moderators. As a result, they couldn't organize any effective defenses. The entirety of Jobs fell to Earth's forces within seven hours.

"And because they weren't detonating nukes in orbit, the environment was undamaged. Earth seized the communal land and divided it into lots. They turned the Carolina into a tour ship with the hope that passengers will decide to invest in the land below."

"ZZzzzzzzzzzzz. Oh, sorry, did you say something?" Kate teased. "Can you start from the beginning, please?"

"Uhm, okay. So, when the colonial government..."

"Oh stop, I'm messing with you! Really, it's all fascinating. Did you get any action in the war? How many men did you kill? "

Thomas hung his head. "Well, actually, I finished my training after most of the colonies had fallen. And I was assigned to this ship right before we headed to Jobs, so I really didn't see any action at all."

Kate was suddenly distracted. "What's that! Outside, over there!" She pointed.

"That? It's a chim, one of the many fauna native to Jobs."

The chim spread its gold-feathered, seven meters across wings as it soared, stalled, and banked back down to the planet.

"What is it doing this high up? Aren't we still in orbit?" Kate pressed her face to the glass.

"We are descending, but yes, the female chim can reach low orbit at around 50 kilometers on this planet. It's part of their mating ritual. The females are much stronger than the males and fly skyward when they're fertile. The males pursue and the female picks the male who makes it the furthest before stalling."

"They're so beautiful. Are they reptiles or birds?"

"The taxonomists are still trying to figure it out. By the way, we are now low enough to breathe the air, so the open decks have been unlocked. Would you like to go outside?"

Kate nodded enthusiastically.

*

When they reached the deck, they saw three men in uniform. One was holding a skeet gun and aiming it over the railing. He fired the gun and one of the chim who was gliding near the ship exploded.

Kate reflexively squeezed Timothy's arm.

"Hey, what's your name!" yelled Timothy at the man. "That's strictly forbidden by the rules of operations. There is to be no killing of the native wildlife. You're going on report!"

The man slung the gun over his shoulder and approached Timothy. He was a foot taller than Timothy and weighed twice as much. "What are you going to do about it? Don't you have some sheets to fold?"

Timothy recognized the man as a low-ranking enlisted officer. "I am your superior on this ship, and you will speak to me with respect."

"Respect this." The enlisted man punched Timothy in the mouth, sending him tumbling to the deck. Before Timothy could get up, two other enlisted men pulled their friend away and through a port.

Kate helped Timothy to his feet. "They're not going to get away with that, are they?"

Timothy sighed. "Since the war ended, discipline kind of crumbled. When this was a proper warship, he would have been executed for striking a superior officer. Now that we're a glorified cruise ship...."

"Your lip is bleeding. Are you okay?" Kate dabbed Timothy's mouth with a tissue from her purse.

"I'll be fine. I assume you and your husband will be enjoying the ship's evening festivities? They start in about thirty minutes."

"Yes, I think so. Will you be joining us?"

"I'm afraid I can't."

"But tomorrow ? will you finish showing me around the ship?"

"Yes, I can meet you here tomorrow morning at eight, planet time. Is that satisfactory?"

Through a smile, Kate tried to imitate Timothy's formal tone. "Yes, that is satisfactory, Lieutenant." She saluted and giggled.

*

Timothy returned to his cabin. He could hear the music from the lido deck above him. He carefully polished his shoes and then his brass. Then he removed his uniform and carefully inspected it for Irish pennants.

Before climbing into bed, he opened a box on his desk containing a small chim and gave it food and water.

*

Thirty minutes after the time they agreed to meet, Kate walked onto the deck. Timothy noticed a mark on her face under her left eye.

"Are you okay? What happened to you?"

"I found some messages on my husband's communicator and..." She buried her face in her hands.

"Hey, let's get you to the sickbay. They'll take care of that."

*

Timothy sat in the waiting area outside sickbay. A cheerful Kate emerged, the black mark gone and replaced with a smile. "So, Lieutenant, shall we continue with our tour?"

*

"This is the hangar bay. During the war, this would house either 200 fighters here or 20 troop transports, each capable of holding 500 men. "

"What's that? It looks so retro!" Kate let go of Timothy's arm and ran ahead.

"That's the Onanymous. It was a tax seizure from one of the planet's residents. It has modern propulsion technology under the hood, but the original owner had a steam punk fascination and had it fabricated to look like a dirigible. She'll probably be scrapped, which is too bad, because she flies really well."

"You've flown that thing?" asked Kate, excitedly.

"Yes. I was originally trained and commissioned as a pilot, but they didn't need so many of us when the war ended. I was re-assigned to, well, this." Timothy pointed to the badge on his uniform with the words "Hospitality" stitched in capital letters.

"Take me for a ride, Timmy!"

"I'd be happy to, but it's against regulations for me to depart the ship."

"Please?"

*

The Onanymous sped towards the solar terminator, crossing from day into night.

"I want to show you something." Timothy brought the ship to a standstill above an intricate network of branches above an embankment. "When I initially arrived on this planet, I found a collection of chim nests. Several thousand are here, all in close proximity."

Kate looked down at the water below the nests. "It looks shallow. Can we swim?"

"Yeah, it should be fine. Do you have a suit?" Before he'd finished his sentence, Kate had pulled off her clothes and was standing naked in front of him. Timothy turned red and looked away. "I guess not."

"You North Americans are such prudes. Let's go!"

He stripped down to his boxers and led the way down the ship's ladder. Kate followed him into the dark, warm water below.

*

"I hope you enjoyed the trip, Kate. I'll see you around, unless you need anything else?"

"Where are you going now, Timmy?"

"I need to get back to my quarters."

"What's the rush? Do you have a date?"

"No, I, well, I've been caring for a baby chim I found abandoned. It's feeding time."

"Who knew you had such a soft spot? You must show me."

*

"He's so tiny. I can't believe it will grow into something so large."

Tim took the bird from her hands and returned it to the box. When he looked back towards Kate, she was smiling. Tim met her eyes for a moment too long, pulled her body close to him and kissed her. She returned his embrace.

Kissing gave way to more, and their bodies merged.

*

Timothy gazed at the ceiling above his bed. Kate was cuddled against him. He could feel her staring at his face. He turned to her and asked, "What now?"

Kate smiled and shrugged.

Hamilton Fisk was born in Germania during the Late Iron Age. He counted his birthdays from the year 100CE, but knew that his guess could easily be off by a generation or more. He spent his first life as a farmer, growing what he could along the Rhine River.

He experienced the miraculous at an early age. As a young man of about twelve, he lost part of a finger while helping his father split wood. The family prayed to the gods for him to be healed, and within a month the finger had re-grown. When others in the family suffered colds and sores and cowpox, Hamilton remained unaffected.

His family called him Steudth, meaning “the strong man.” That is the earliest of his names that he can remember, his birth name has been forgotten even by himself, after all these centuries.

By his fiftieth year, he knew that he was not the same as the people around him. His young wife had aged to a stooped, toothless hag, while he remained young and strong. His wife remained childless, and when she died, neighbors talked about his still-youthful demeanor. They whispered about sorcery and witchcraft. When the whispers escalated to talk of purging and trial, Steudth left town under the cover of darkness. He settled some miles away, and established a new life for himself.

He took a new name, found work and established himself into the new community. Eventually he was accepted, took a wife, and lived a generation before he was compelled to again move on.

For centuries, he repeated the same pattern, over and over. He would arrive in a new community as a stranger, and built a life for himself. He looked and felt like a man in his twenties, but learned to slow and stoop as the years advanced. Sometimes he would powder his hair or grow a long beard to simulate aging. He would blacken his teeth with pitch to conceal the perfect white teeth in his mouth.

He would change his name in every new community. He would adopt the religion and the values of his new community. He would often take a wife, but he always remained childless, except for the wives who cuckolded him.

When the aging process of those around him made it increasing difficult to maintain his deception, he would disappear. Sometimes he would stage his death by putting clothing by a riverbank or by torching his barn, but sometimes he would simply vanish into the night. Such things happen all the time; a simple disappearance did not arouse very much suspicion in the Middle Ages.

He was an inquisitive man, and spent several lifetimes as a monk or a priest or even a recluse, reading and studying. He became learned and wise. He accumulated wealth and power over his lifetimes. A few coins at first, but his possessions exploded into a vast fortune by the time Columbus made his journeys of discovery.

His years made him clever and resourceful. He created companies and built a network of bankers, clerks, solicitors and politicians to help protect his identity and his wealth. Politicians and leaders did his bidding, most times without even knowing he existed. He lived as a teacher, a student, a leader and a master.

Around 1720 he settled in London and took the name William FitzRoy. There, he became aware of a new invention called the steam engine. It intrigued him, and he devoted resources, time, and energy towards exploiting this wonder.

With FitzRoy’s support and brilliance, the use of steam power changed the world. Tinkerers, inventors and mechanics created wonders undreamed of before. Self-propelled vehicles cruised the landscape, and hydrogen-filled airships ferried people and products across continents. Clockwork automatons performed calculations at a speed undreamed of before.

FitzRoy consolidated his holdings into a new company, the Worldwide Beneficence Company. The greatest minds of this time were recruited into the employ of this corporation.

By the end of the 18th Century, the Steam Age was in full flower. Amazing steam-driven weapons of war had helped expand the British Empire across the globe. Most of the nations of Europe joined the British Commonwealth, and a rebellion in the American colonies was extinguished with ease. Britannia ruled the world, and William FitzRoy ruled Britannia, even though few people had heard of him.

FitzRoy lived almost as a hermit, meeting with trusted aids in darkened rooms and from behind screened windows. Those in his employ assumed him to be an ancient man in his nineties or older. Only a very few of his most trusted aides ever learned the truth of his immortality.

His wealth accumulated at an almost exponential rate. Every modern convenience, from the typing-contraption that secretaries used, to the thunder-class missiles that the military relied on, were comprised of a host of Worldwide Beneficence Company patents.

In 1822, FitzRoy once again staged his death, and his will left his fortune to himself, in the guise of a distant relative, Hamilton Fisk. Fisk arrived soon after, and immediately took control of FitzRoy’s businesses.

Fisk’s leadership took the business, and the science, to undreamed-of heights. Gigantic ships and submarines plowed the oceans, wheeled and walking vehicles explored the countryside, and vast mechanical brains tabulated data that inspired even greater inventions. The world changed at an ever-increasing speed, while the architect of the modern marvels remained in the shadows.

Undreamed-of global prosperity brought millions out of poverty. Education and literacy became the norm, and the nations of the world enjoyed unprecedented peace. There were wars, to be sure, but most were little more that aboriginal uprisings and street riots. Nothing could long withstand the awesome power of the British Empire and the Worldwide Beneficence Company.

In 1841, Fisk’s life took an unexpected turn. John III, King of England and Emperor of the British Commonwealth, summoned Fisk to Buckingham Palace for an emergency consulting session. This kind of meeting was not altogether unheard of, and Fisk took pains to remain as unobtrusive and unrecognized during these sessions.

This meeting, however, was altogether different. King John surprised Fisk in the Great Hall with the full assembly of Parliament and representatives of the press. Several members of the Fourth Estate brought their Auto-Delineation devices, which rendered very good automatic sketches of Fisk’s face. The King awarded Fisk with knighthood and a seat at Parliament, and made sure that the entire Empire knew the debt they owed to Fisk and the Worldwide Beneficence Company.

Overnight, to his horror, Fisk was a celebrity. His face was among the most recognizable in all history. Every newspaper reproduced the detailed sketches with every article about the Worldwide Beneficence Company. Encyclopedias and textbooks reproduced the pictures as they lauded him as the most admired man of the age.

For the next two decades, Fisk embraced his celebrity. He enjoyed public camaraderie and prominence, more than he ever suspected he would. He hosted lavish parties, wrote books and articles and made frequent public appearances. He travelled the globe, sometimes in an airship of his own invention, sometimes along the amazing train network that connected the great cities of the world.

He knew that his time of fame and notoriety would soon end, and that a new and younger identity would have to emerge. As always, Fisk planned for his eventual aging, demise and succession. His fame, however, presented a challenge he had never faced.

As he had for years, Fisk had obtained documentation for several identities. At any given time, there was always at least one identity that was within Fisk’s apparent age range. Fisk had learned long ago to take few unnecessary chances.

Soon it became time to implement his succession plan. In a newspaper article in 1870, Fisk mentioned a son that had been born out of wedlock. He insisted that the child and his mother would remain anonymous until Fisk’s passing, but that the son would likely be his heir.

A year later, Fisk began his transition. On a warm summer dawn along a remote stretch of country road, he piloted his Steam Strider to a prearranged rendezvous point to meet his faithful servant, Finn. He had shared his amazing secret with Finn, the only person of this generation he so trusted.

Finn waited beside a modest steam carriage until he saw the Steam Strider arrive. He flashed his torch in the pre-arranged signal. The Strider stopped, and Fisk lowered himself to the ground and slid into the steam vehicle’s passenger seat.

As Finn climbed into the driver’s seat, Fisk toggled a switch on a small device that sent a radio signal to the clockwork automaton, which piloted the Steam Strider. The Strider ambled off in the opposite direction that the carriage took. Within just a few minutes, the steam compressor on the Strider would suffer a tragic rupture that would utterly destroy the Strider and all contents within.

The world would mourn Hamilton Fisk and would celebrate the arrival of his long-lost son several weeks later. People would marvel at the son’s resemblance to the late, great innovator.

The long-lost son had ideas, notions, and plans about ushering in a new age of radio waves and electronics and atomics. He could not wait to begin this new life.

The only sound of my world is the creak of the bridges. Sometimes I think I hear a mountain goat scuffling among the rocks, or a bird swooping low with beating wings, but it is my imagination. After being alone for such a long time I suppose it is natural to imagine another sound, to yearn to know I am not alone and solitary in this world.
Of course I understand I am not alone. Down below there are others; how else would I eat? Every five days I pull the ropes of the pulleys, bringing the baskets up the chute, heaving them with my whole weight. Delivery Day brings food and water, but nothing else. Once in among the provisions were a bunch of wild flowers and I fancied that a friend had picked them for me and stowed them as a message. But that was only once.
No, I know every creak and snap of these wooden timbers. I know every knobble of the rough ropes and every metal cleat that fastens them together. I know every wobble and shake of them as they bear my weight and allow me passage between the pods. Sometimes I run them. I am not afraid! They will not let me fall, they will not let me slip. I walk them in the dark, I could walk them blindfolded if I needed to. I am the Guardian of the Pods, mistress to these elevated chambers.
When I was plucked from my young and carefree life, I was unsure and afraid. How could I be happy, sent to live in isolation, not to hear another human voice until a new guardian replaces me? Surely the loneliness would drive me to insanity. I was told I was the chosen one, the only person with the powers for this role and they had searched high and low for me. There was no refusing them. My journey up the ladder, pinned to the rock face, was long. It tested every muscle in my arms and legs and every molecule of my resolve not to cling to that ladder and demand to go home, no matter the consequences. I left the ground as an ordinary farm girl and arrived in that lofty place as Guardian.
But what a strange place I guard. There are half a dozen pods built into the mountain. Each one has deep room recessed, like a cave in a cliff face. But each room is lined and dry and lit too by lamps that work by some invisible power. I know not how the power reaches them; I have to trust that the power will not fail and leave me in the darkness. There is only gloom outside the pods, never the bright blue sky with wispy trailing clouds I remember from my childhood. No, the sun is banished from this land and I live in the half-light.
One pod contains my food and water store, a small kitchen, a well-scrubbed wooden table where I sit and eat. One pod contains my bed, a closet full of blankets and my few personal items. Another pod houses my bathroom and a sink for washing my clothes. I moved the clothes and shoes, hair accessories and shawls of the previous Guardians to the fourth pod and it has become my dressing-up room, my theatre. I dress in the robes of those who were here before me and try on their strange shoes. I turn and admire myself in my new garb and twist my hair into different styles with the silver pins I found in the bottom of a chest. Sometimes I invent myself into a new character as I swish around the pod’s verandah, reciting poems or giving a speech to the thin air below me. In one of the chests I found a diary. I hold it sometimes but I never open it to read the lines of fading ink. I am too afraid to know how long the writer was left here, and what became of her.
The highest pod contains the Treasure. There is no door, no lock. I am here to guard it and that is sufficient. I have been there enough times for the glitter and sparkle of gems to mean nothing to me. It is stacked high with riches: boxes of diamonds, rubies, emeralds; fine silver necklaces, rings studded with jewels and intricately shaped; carved ornaments of every precious stone or rare wood you might imagine; portraits of long forgotten kings or gods, mirrors now tarnished and discoloured. I have no use for any of them. If hares were to come thieving I would gladly let them try to steal away the bracelets and fine silks. But no one comes.
The last pod is the most precious to me. My library. A padded bench is built into the wall and perhaps as a concession to her isolation one of my predcessors was gifted a set of books. One hundred classics. Maybe they were hauled up the rock face when the pods were built. Maybe the Guardian opened a basket on Delivery Day and was surprised to find a set of books there beside her provisons. Like my flowers, but longer lasting. Perhaps they came in groups of five; twenty times she would have wrenched that basket up the chute, the pulley ropes chafing her hands, until the set of one hundred was complete. I have read fifty-seven of them. I ration myself, force myself to read slowly. At first I read them greedily, devouring their words, listening to the stories they told me, the voices they gave me. I raced through them, gourging myself and scarcely taking any time between the end of one and the beginning of the next. By the time I reached number twenty-two I realised that my supply was going to be outstripped by my voracious appetite for their plots, their dialogue, their images. Now I read slowly, putting the book down between chapters, rerunning the story in my mind. Sometimes I find an outfit which suits one of the characters and read her words aloud, act out the scene. It is often strange to hear my own voice, so unused, in the stillness of the murky mountain side. But there is no one here to care.
I am dressing in a purple brocade flowing gown, the sleeves almost touching the ground, my hair coiled on my head and held firm with a turquoise clip, book by my side, ready to recite a passage about the trials of love, when I hear the bridges creaking.
Yes, the bridges are creaking!
How can this be?
I crouch, ducking my head down, suddenly terrified, suddenly outraged. Who is the trespasser, come to steal and plunder?
I see him almost immediately although my mind shirks away from what my eyes are showing me. A man stands on the verandah of the Library pod, his body poised with curiosity and interest. He enters and I see his form wandering around, picking up my books, surveying what he finds. I rush forward, my instinct to guard this place rising through me like an angry pulse. I draw my knife from my belt and wait for him.
He emerges and sees me at once. If he thinks I am a strange sight, dressed in my purple gown and my blade placed against the rope of the bridge, he does not show it.
“Greetings Guardian,” he says, evenly, pleasantly.
My angers ebbs higher. I raise the sharp knife against the first of the ropes. “What do you want here?” I demand.
He smiles at me. “I have come to speak with you.”
His words confuse me more.
“Where have you come from?” My voice feels raspy and thick with nerves.
“From the West,” he replies and I can say nothing. East, West, North, South; it makes no difference to me. I wanted to know if he had come from above or below. Is he mocking me?
“This is my domain. You have no business here. You will be punished.”
“By who? Who knows I am here, except you?”
His words jar me. I let the knife swing through the air, a strange whooshing noise filling the vacuum. It slices cleanly and the thick rope which acts as a handrail falls slack. Another slice to the other side and the bridge will be useless, an impossible platform of uneven, wooden slats. He will be trapped there or need to cross on his hands and knees clinging to the boards. One twist from me and he will fall to his death.
And yet he does not look concerned.
“Do it,”he says. “Cut the rope.”
Another whoosh and the rope is severed.
My books! my heart cries. He has my books and I have an angry heart and a quick knife. Please do not let him toss my books to the ground…
As if sensing my anxiety he turns and glances behind him.
“What keeps you here?” he asks after picking up a volume and turning it over in his hands. I cannot tell which book he holds.
“I am here to guard, to serve this place,” I tell him, praying my voice rings true and steady.
“Why? For whom do you live this life of solitude? How long have they left you here?”he asks. This time there is no mocking.
I cannot answer. I am rendered mute.
“Do you think they care about you? Do you think they spend one minute considering you or appreciate your sacrifice?”
My sacrifice? My mind, suddenly undammed, sees wheat fields swirling patterns in a breeze, cows in a verdant pasture, a collection of children playing and running towards a farm cottage, a husband smiling as he walks home. Yes, all that would have been mine. He wants me to think I would swap every pearl and every gold nugget for a year of that life.
Is he wrong?
“Have you read this one?” he asks. He turns the book’s spine to his eyes. “Number fifty-eight,” he adds.
I let my head shake once. He smiles and moves it, as if he were restless, in his hands. One flip of his wrist and it would be gone forever. I wait, my breath a painful lump in my chest. But he slides it inside his jacket and stares at me.
“I’m leaving now,” he announces. “You should come too. Before they forget you and leave you to starve.”
I open my mouth to argue but close it again. If a stranger can appear here In front of me, who is to say that one day they will not fill my basket with food and water? Suddenly nothing is certain.
Then, without warning, he jumps. He vanishes from my eyes and I lean forward on the beams of the pod to see his figure falling toward the ground. There is confusion and despair in me, to see this man, the only living creature I have seen in many years, plummet through the murky air. But suddenly I see his head no longer, but a circle of red material. He floats, yes, coasts downwards and he shouts me a message. It sounds like “Come now.”
I am frozen. Shock makes me want to shiver and shake. Yet I refuse to give in to it. Suddenly I want that farmland scene more than I can bear. Or life in a town, a life scrubbing castle steps, a life selling soap and brushes would be better than this. I change my clothes quickly. I gather some food into a sack. I consider making space there for some gold or silver but I reconsider. I will abandon this place but not steal from it. Lastly I push book fifty-seven, not yet finished, into my bag and find the ladder inside the chute. I start the descent, praying the stranger waits for me at the end.

Micheal carried some trash bags from the restaurant to the dumpster in the ally. Before he opened it, he heard some shuffling. Listening closer, he was sure there was something inside. Flipping open the lid exposed a girl with a trash covered dress and tangled hair.

"What are you doing?" Micheal said with disgust.

Her grey eyes were wide and stunned with shock. "I... I'm just so hungry..."

"Get out of there," he said, and the girl stumbled out. "Why don't you go before you get yourself in trouble."

Without another word, the girl started down the alley. Micheal shook his head and picked up the bags. Just before he tossed them in, a squirrel jumped right on his face. He yelled and fell straight back. As soon as Micheal hit the ground, the animal caught up to and climbed up the melancholy girl to rest on her shoulder.

She wound through the alleyways, watching her feet sadly. She came to a nook in an alley hidden behind a ratty blanket, barely hanging by close pins. The way the building was shaped was perfect for this little alleyway home. It gave three brick walls to the nook, with only one window about two stories above. The little girl had a mattress she found in the corner, and some crates for storing items she found while dumpster diving.

She sat down on the mattress, and the squirrel joined her. "I'm never going to find her, Snickers," the girl said to the squirrel. "I can barely find anything to eat." She undid the latch of the chain around her neck, and gently held the little locket that hung from it. She popped it open, and exposed two pictures: one of her when she was a baby, and one of her older sister. "She's eight years older than this picture, right?"

The squirrel nodded.

The girl sighed. "There's no way I'd recognize her now. I look so different from back then; I bet she looks a lot different too. The only thing I know is her name written on the picture. 'Aurora'."

The squirrel jumped down and ran out of the nook, and the girl sighed. She had the circle locket for as long as she could remember. She latched it, and ran her finger around the diamond in the center. It was the most valuable item she owned. Although she wasn't sure what it was worth, a diamond and gold certainly were worth more than a tattered dress and a worn-out mattress. She'd never try to sell it though. It was her link to Aurora. Her stomach growled, and she curled onto the mattress for a while.

When Snickers returned, and the girl sat up to greet him. He had a paper sticking out either side of his mouth.

"What's this?" She took it and opened it. The paper was a flier advertising the annual carnival that was in town. Snickers pointed at the flier, then at her pendant.

"You know, I bet she will be there!" She jumped out of bed and searched through a crate for an old hair brush. "Will you help me?" she asked Snickers as she sat down again.

The brush was nearly as big as he was, but he tried his best to grip it. He shakily lifted it, and stuck it to her hair. That's where it stayed: stuck in the matted mess. Snickers examined it from both sides, then gave it a good yank, making the girl yelp.

"Hello?" a boy called from the other side of the red blanket.

Snickers and the girl exchanged nervous glances.

"I heard a yell," the boy peeked in the nook.

"I'm fine," she responded, "Snickers just got the brush stuck." She tried to get the brush, but couldn't reach.

"Can I help?" the boy around her age asked, coming inside. "Whoa! Is that a real squirrel?"

"No," the girl laughed, "He's a RobotiPet, you know, a robot squirrel. The dog RobotiPets were more popular, which is why Snickers got thrown away."

"Oh. Well, my name is Zack."

Snickers flicked his tail wearily, still unsure of the stranger.

Zack sat down next to the girl and started to gently brush the knots out. "Why do you live here?"

"This is my home," she answered.

"This isn't a home," Zack retorted. "This is an alley. The apartment I live in, up there, that's a home."

"Oh, have you been watching me?"

Zack blushed, "I've seen you before."

She nodded. "Well, I won't live here forever. When I find my sister, I'll have a home like you."

A noise from the ally made them stop talking.

"Did you see that spider!?"

"A spider?" Zack asked as he shook his head. "There's no way a spider made that noise. It was probably a cat. Anyways, you have a sister?"

"Yes," she turned and showed him the pictures in the locket as he continued to brush.

"Why aren't you with her?"

The girl shrugged. "I don't know. When I find her, I can ask her myself. Snickers thinks she'll be at the carnival, so that's where I'll look."

"Well, you can't go to the carnival like this," the boy stated.

She wrinkled her nose.

"You need a new dress, and your hair needs untangled. My dad and mom aren't home, and she has a few dresses she won't notice missing."

After he got all the knots out of her greasy hair, they went up to his apartment while Snickers waited outside. He found the smallest dress in his mom's closet, and gave it to the girl to try on.

When she came out of the bathroom, it was so long she was using it as a rug. Zack got some scissors form the kitchen, and carefully cut the bottom off the dress. It now neatly rested at her knees.

"Okay, ready to go?" she asked with a tilt of the head.

"To the carnival? No, I can't go."

"Why not?"

Zack thought about it. If he went, he'd be back home before either of his parents got home, but he didn't want to take the chance of getting in trouble either.

One look at the girls confused, almost pleading face made his mind. "Alright, I'll go." He grabbed the little allowance he had, and they were off.

When they reached the carnival, the girl became anxious. She held the locket tightly for comfort. They were surrounded by teenagers. She looked at every face that passed, desperately searching for one that matched her sister's. Snickers was tailing closely behind, carefully avoiding being crushed by the inattentive feet stampeding by. After the sun set and walking around for at least an hour, Zack could see she was stressed. He slid his hand into hers and pulled her away from all the games and rides to sit on a bench by a tree. Snickers thankfully accepted the break, and curled up on her lap.

"There is so many girls that would be her age." The girl's stomach growled. Snickers was the first to notice, beings he was so close. He jumped down and ran off to the carnival.

"Well, I think if you see her, you'll just know. She's your sister, after all. Are you hungry?"

"Um," she stalled, not wanting to show how starving she was.
"I'll be right back." Zack got up and joined the crowd of carnival goers.

Not but a minute later, Snickers returned and presented an ice-cream cone to the girl.

"Snickers! This looks so..." She was going to say 'good', until she saw the dirt and a bit of trash acquired in transit. "Thank you."

The squirrel was about to climb into her lap again, but was interrupted by a rustle in the tree. They both curiously watched and simultaneously jumped when a spider-like robot dropped from a branch, dangling by a chain. It was about the size of a cat, and held out a bowl of grits with a spoon.

"Hey, I saw you in the ally earlier." Her smile was broken when Snickers flicked his tail and hissed a warning. "Snickers, be nice, he's only trying to help, right?" She gave the spider-bot a suspicious tilted-head glance.

The robot nodded it's head, resembling a glass blimp with yellow lights.

She put the ice-cream on the ground, and gladly took the warm grits. Before she could even get the spoon in the bowl, Snickers sniffed the contents and determined something was wrong. To keep her from eating it, he jumped into the bowl. The contents spilled everywhere, and the girl hollered in surprise.

In the confusion, the spider-bot leapt for the girl's locket and pulled at it. The girls chain didn't break, but the locket came open. The robot got a clear look at the pictures.

"Get away!" the girl shouted, and the robot retreated to a thicket of trees near by. "What was that about?"

The squirrel did a quick charade, pointing at the spilled grits, then held his throat and fell over, acting dead.

"Poison?!" The girl reached for her locket, and noticed it was open. She snapped it shut.

After a few more minutes of antsy waiting, she asked, "What is taking him so long?" The squirrel was sound asleep next to her. The moon was high in the sky. When the girl looked about the shimmering scene, her eyes fell on the thicket. She saw a lady waving. The girl stood.

Zack wove through the crowd with two funnel cakes. When he saw the girl standing by the bench looking toward the trees, he looked too. He saw a lady that looked like a glowing, older form of the picture in his friend's locket.

"Aurora?" she whispered.

As soon as the name was spoken, the figure ran into the trees.

"Aurora!" The girl darted after her.

"Hey, wait!" Zack tried to warn, but by the time he set down the food, she was gone into the trees, chasing the luminescent figure.

"Aurora!" the girl called, following the lady through the dark thick trees adjacent to the carnival. "Aurora!"

A teenager gasped when she heard the yell. "Did you guys hear that?" she asked her friends.

"Hear what?"

"It sounded like a girl yelling in there."

"You're imagining things..."

"There! Again! I'm not kidding, come on."

"There's no way we're going in there!" her other friend protested.

"Fine, I'll go alone." She bravely jumped into the trees.

"Are you crazy!? There could be creeps in there!"

"Auror..." the girl stopped when the figure she was chasing vanished, and a man came out from behind a tree, the spider robot on his shoulder. "Good job leading her here."

"That wasn?t... That was just a picture?"

"A hologram. But enough, give me that pendant."

"No!"

"I've spent a long time tracking down that little necklace. That diamond in your locket is more worth more than your life. I'll take both if you don't hand it over." The man approached.

The girl fell backwards onto the ground in fear.

Before the man got to her, the teenager leaped from behind, and got between the two of them. She was breathing heavy, standing with her arms out to shield the girl. "Stay away from her!"

The man was startled, but he quickly recovered and laughed. "And what are you going to do?"

The teen reached into her pocket, and faster than he could react, she sprayed mace into his eyes. The man yelled in pain, and blindly shuffled away after shouting, "This isn't over!"

The teen turned to the girl. "Are you okay? We need to get out of here."

"Yeah, I'm fine." She looked up to her savior, and gasped. "You look, just like..."

The teen squinted at the girl. "A... Oh my God... Alyssa?"

"Aurora! It's you!"